


make me see sparks

by onetiredboy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining, aziraphale is scared of being in love, crowley is tired of ignoring it, post episode 6, soft boys in soft love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 00:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19121209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: // “I mean--” Crowley laughed, “I mean, we’ve been dancing around this for, what, 900? 1000 years at least?”“Crowley—”“We don’t—we don’t have to anymore,” Crowley continued, “You said so yourself. No more clichés.” //





	make me see sparks

**Author's Note:**

> please see the image at the start of the fic for ultimate enjoyment! ;)

//pre-reading

ok on with the show//

 

“So we did it!” Aziraphale grinned, popping the cork on one of Crowley’s vintage bottles of wine. He poured them both a hearty glassful and lifted his own up, “We saved the world!”

“So we did,” Crowley muttered, picking up his glass. Aziraphale gave him a _look_.

“Why, now, what’s the gloomy look for?” Aziraphale asked, setting himself down on a large armchair that Crowley had miracle-d into existence for him. “I daresay that you’re the most responsible for all of this, my dear boy. Without you we’d be watching _Sound of Music_ right now. Or I would. I don’t suppose you would quite be allowed to join me, being a demon and all.”

“I’m not gloomy,” Crowley adjusted in his chair so that his legs hung over one arm and he leaned back against the other. “I’m just… pensive.”

“Pensive,” Aziraphale echoed.

“Thoughtful.”

“Well,” Aziraphale smiled encouragingly at him, “I’m sure the alcohol will help in curing that. You know, I can’t believe this is the first time I’ve seen your flat. And you’ve lived here for 60 years! Why don’t you give me a proper tour?”

Crowley wrinkled his nose, “Why would you want a tour of a flat?”

“You’ve seen all of my bookshop,” Aziraphale reasoned, “It’s only fair.”

Crowley grumbled and half melted off of his chair, pulling himself to his feet, “Okay then.” He stretched his arms out wide, “This is the main room. It has some chairs and a TV.”

“Beautiful!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

Crowley gave him a _look._ Then he sauntered away from the lounge room and turned into the hallway that lead to the rest of the flat, lined either side by luscious plants. As he walked in, they began to shiver.

“Oh!” Aziraphale gasped softly. “Oh, Crowley, these are _gorgeous._ ” He turned to Crowley and gave a small, mischievous smile, “I always knew you had a soft spot for plants.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Crowley said under his breath. He reached out and dragged his finger over a leaf in front of him. The plant he caressed – Beelzebub Lucifer Cain IV – grew a whole new leaf as he watched.

“Goodness,” Aziraphale commented, leaning over, “These plants have a lot of respect for you.”

“Yes, well,” Crowley glanced around at the plants, and then turned away from them, “On with the tour.”

He turned towards the end of the corridor and felt himself seize up with mortification. Almost in slow motion, he saw Aziraphale look ahead and then blink suddenly.

“My,” he said, “What’s this?”

 _Shit._ Too late to miracle it away now, Aziraphale would notice and that would lead to even more sets of questions. Crowley cleared his throat.

“It’s a statue,” he said. He gestured vaguely at it, “It symbolises, you know… the wrestle between good and evil, with evil prevailing.”

There was silence. Then Aziraphale began to say something. He stopped. Then he began again.

“Are you sure…” he asked nervously, “that they’re wrestling?”

Crowley looked sideways at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked sideways at Crowley. There was silence.

Crowley cleared his throat and turned sharply away, “Well. Art. You know.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, glancing over his shoulder back at the statue as he followed behind. “Art.”

Demons don’t handle awkwardness very well. Angels are much better at smiling politely and moving on, but demons – specifically demons of the self-conscious, secretly-insecure type – are the kind to agonise over embarrassing moments for years. Crowley could already feel the memory burning into his metaphorical brain. He cleared his throat again.

“This is my bedroom,” he gestured to a closed door.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, a little underwhelmed. Crowley sighed, glanced at the door, and waved a hand. It swung open.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said again, much more enthusiastically. He stepped past Crowley inside the room.

“You’re not half nosy, are you, Aziraphale?” Crowley followed him in and flopped down on his bed. Aziraphale walked around the room.

“Oh, come off it,” he glanced at Crowley sternly, “No such thing as being nosy between friends.”

“Friends,” Crowley parroted sourly.

Aziraphale frowned at him. “I think we’re past the time where we have to be all ‘oh, we’re not friends’, ‘we’re sworn enemies’ cliché by this point, Crowley,” he chided.

“Oh?” Crowley sat up on his bed, “Wasn’t it only three days ago you said – and I quote – ‘I don’t even like you’?”

“Well,” Aziraphale blushed. “I was caught up in the moment. I apologised for that.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Well, I’m apologising right now. I apologise.”

“Don’t apologise.”

“Well there you have it,” Aziraphale sat down on the bed beside Crowley and smiled, patting his knee, “No hard feelings.”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale for a moment, “You’re immeasurably dim, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale chuckled, “You don’t believe that.”

“You’re dim in some ways,” Crowley sighed, turning his head away. He glanced at a painting on the wall – a concept sketch of Hans Melming’s _Hell_. “So. Is this it for the next few thousand years?

He felt more than heard Aziraphale turn towards him, “Pardon?”

“I mean…” Crowley looked down at his knees. “You’ll go on doing good things, I’ll go on doing bad things. Every few months we’ll meet up for drinks, until the Armageddon happens for real. After all we fought for over the last few days, I don’t know… Don’t you want… more?”

“More…?” Aziraphale sounded wary.

Crowley turned to him. Aziraphale’s little caterpillar eyebrows were drawn over his blue eyes. Those blue eyes—it had been thousands of years ago that Crowley first realised he could’ve stared at those blue eyes forever. And he _knew_ the way Aziraphale looked at him.

“More,” Crowley reiterated, “I mean—” he laughed, “I mean, we’ve been dancing around this for, what, 900? 1000 years at least?”

“Crowley—”

“We don’t—we don’t have to anymore,” Crowley continued, “You said so yourself. No more clichés.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said again, serious this time. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bullshit.”

Aziraphale fell silent and gave Crowley that sideways stare. The one that said ‘ _watch yourself, Crowley: a guy could get the wrong idea’._ But Crowley had been giving Aziraphale _the wrong idea_ on and off for at least 1000 years and so far Aziraphale had blatantly refused to do anything about it.

Crowley turned to face Aziraphale properly. Like this, they were already close. It didn’t take much—Crowley put his hand on Aziraphale’s side and locked eyes with him. The wariness in Aziraphale’s gaze fell off his face, replaced with a kind of softness that was usually only reserved for the secret glances he thought Crowley didn’t notice. The things it did to Crowley’s metaphorical heart were purely blasphemous as far as a demon was concerned.

Crowley had never been more into blasphemy.

“Angel,” he murmured, and moved closer. Their noses bumped. Aziraphale made this little nervous hitching breath, and Crowley froze. They hesitated in this moment: too close for it not to be clear what Crowley wanted, too far for it to happen. Crowley counted to five, waiting at each number for Aziraphale to suddenly jolt away, preach something about purity and demons.

Crowley reached five. Then he ducked his head forward and kissed him.

There were sparks. Literally. The moment their lips touched, it was like a little electric zap. Crowley pulled away from Aziraphale and blessed, putting his head into his hands.

“I should’ve known,” he muttered, “I should’ve known—an angel and a demon. Of course there would be something in place to stop us. Just one last ha-ha from Heaven and Hell to us!”

“Well, you know…” Aziraphale started quietly. He leaned closer in to Crowley, waiting until Crowley looked up at him to continue speaking. Aziraphale smiled softly. He lifted a hand to cup the side of Crowley’s face, “I think I could quite get used to the sensation.”

Aziraphale leaned in and kissed him. There were sparks. Beside Crowley’s bed, the lamp fizzled and went out.

Neither of them could’ve cared less.


End file.
